“Misha, look!” I froze at the gate, unable to believe what I saw.
My husband stumbled across the threshold, bowed beneath the weight of a bucket packed with fish. The early frost of July seeped into my bones, but what I saw on the bench made me forget about it.
“What is it?” Mikhail laid the bucket down and stepped over to me.
A woven basket rested on an old bench by the fence. Inside, a youngster was covered in a worn cloth. A toddler, approximately two years old.
His enormous brown eyes stared directly at me, without fear or interest.
“My God,” Mikhail exclaimed. “Where did he come from?”
I gently ran my finger through his dark hair. The boy didn’t flinch, didn’t cry — he just blinked.
In his tiny fist, he clutched a piece of paper. I carefully uncurled his fingers and read the note: “Please help him. I can’t. Forgive me.”
“We have to call the police,” Mikhail frowned, scratching his head. “And inform the village council.”
But I was already lifting the boy into my arms, pressing him against me. He smelled of dusty roads and unwashed hair. His romper was worn but clean.
“Anna,” Misha looked at me worriedly, “we can’t just take him in.”
“Yes, we can,” I met his gaze. “Misha, we’ve been waiting five years. Five. Doctors say we’ll never have children. And now…”
“But the law, the paperwork… the parents might come back,” he argued.
I shake my head.
“They will not. “I can feel it.”
The youngster immediately smiled broadly, as if he comprehended our discourse. And it was enough. We were able to secure guardianship and documentation thanks to some acquaintances. 1993 was a challenging period.
A week later, we observed something unusual. The boy, whom I had named Ilya, did not react to sounds. At first, we assumed he was simply pensive and lost in meditation.
But when the neighbor’s tractor roared right by the windows and Ilya didn’t even flinch, my heart dropped.
“Misha, he can’t hear,” I muttered one evening after putting him to sleep in an ancient cradle we had inherited from a nephew.
My husband stared at the fire in the stove for a long time, then sighed: “We’ll take him to Dr. Nikolai Petrovich in Zarechye.”
The doctor examined Ilya and spread his hands. “Congenital deafness. Complete. Don’t even hope for surgery — it’s not that kind of case.”
I cried all the way home. Mikhail was silent, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. That evening, after Ilya fell asleep, he pulled a bottle from the cupboard.
“Misha, maybe you shouldn’t…”
“No,” he poured half a glass and drank it down in one gulp. “We’re not giving him up.”
“Who?”
“Him. We’re not giving him up,” he said firmly. “We’ll manage.”
“But how? How will we teach him? How…”
Mikhail interrupted me with a motion. “If we need to, you’ll learn. You are a teacher. “You will figure something out.”
That night, I was unable to sleep. I lie staring at the ceiling, wondering, “How do you teach a child who can’t hear?” “How do you meet all of his needs?”
By daylight, it became clear that he has eyes, hands, and a heart. This suggests he has all he needs.
The next day, I took out a notebook and began formulating a plan. Searching for books. We’re brainstorming ways to teach without sound. Our lives changed forever after that.
That fall, Ilya turned ten. He was seated at the window, drawing sunflowers. In his sketchbook, they were more than just flowers; they were swirling in their own unique dance.
“Misha, look,” I touched my husband’s shoulder as I entered the room. “Yellow again. He’s happy today.”
Over the years, Ilya and I learned to understand each other. First, I mastered finger spelling — the manual alphabet — then sign language.
Mikhail was slower to learn, but the most important words — “son,” “love,” “proud” — he had memorized long ago.
There was no school for deaf children in our village, so I taught him myself. He learned to read quickly: alphabet, syllables, words. He learned to count even faster. But most of all — he drew. Constantly, on everything he could find.
First with his finger on fogged-up windows.
Then with charcoal on a board Mikhail built for him. Later — with paints on paper and canvas. I ordered paints from the city by mail, saving on everything else so the boy could have good materials.
“Your mute kid scribbling again?” mocked our neighbor Semyon, who peered over the fence. “What good is he?”
Mikhail raised his head from the garden bed: “And you, Semyon, what good are you, except for running your mouth?”
It was not easy dealing with the people. They didn’t comprehend us. They taunted Ilya and called him names, particularly the children.
One day, he returned home with a ripped shirt and a scratch on his cheek. Without saying anything, he pointed to the perpetrator: Kolka, the headman’s son.
I cried while ministering to his wound. Ilya wiped my tears with his fingertips and smiled, as if to say, “It’s okay, don’t worry.”
That evening, Mikhail left. He returned late, saying nothing, but with a bruise under his eye. After that, no one bothered Ilya again.
By adolescence, Ilya’s drawings changed. He developed his own unique style — as if from another world.
He drew a world without sound, yet the depth in his work took your breath away. Our home’s walls were covered with his paintings.
One day, a commission from the district came to inspect how I was homeschooling. A stern-looking older woman entered, saw the paintings, and froze.
“Who painted these?” she whispered.
“My son,” I said proudly.
“You must show these to experts,” she said, taking off her glasses. “Your boy… he has a true gift.”
But we were scared. Ilya saw the world outside the village as huge and terrifying. How would he cope without us, without the customary motions and signs?
“We have to go,” I insisted, collecting his belongings. “There is an artist’s fair in the district. You have to exhibit your work.”
Ilya was already seventeen, tall and slim, with long fingers and a keen eye that seemed to notice everything. He reluctantly nodded; disputing with me was fruitless.
At the fair, his works were displayed in the farthest corner. Five little pieces depict farms, birds, and hands holding the sun. People passed past, glanced, but did not pause.
Then she appeared—an elderly woman with a straight posture and piercing eyes. She stood still in front of the artworks for quite some time.
Then she turned sharply to me:
“Are these your works?”
“My son’s,” I nodded at Ilya, who stood nearby, arms crossed.
“He’s deaf?” she asked, noticing our signing.
“Yes, since birth.”
She nodded: “My name is Vera Sergeyevna. I’m from an art gallery in Moscow.”
“This piece…” she said, focusing on a little picture depicting a sunset over a field. “It contains something that most artists look for throughout their lives. “I want to buy it.”
Ilya froze, looking at my face as I poorly translated her words. His fingers trembled, and disbelief flashed in his eyes.
“You’re seriously not considering selling?” The woman’s voice was persistent and professional; she recognized the worth of what she observed.
“We never…” I stammered and blushed. “We never considered selling. “It’s only his soul on canvas.”
She took out a leather pocketbook and, without haggling, counted out the amount Mikhail earned in six months of carpentry work.
In mid-autumn, a letter arrived from Moscow stating, “Your son’s work demonstrates rare sincerity.” A level of understanding that cannot be expressed by words. That is precisely what serious art collectors seek.
Moscow greeted us with grey streets and cold looks. The gallery turned out to be a small room in an ancient building on the outskirts. But every day, folks with alert eyes arrived.
They studied the artworks, spoke about composition and colors. Ilya stood aside, observing their lips and gestures.
Though he couldn’t hear, their facial expressions made it plain that something remarkable was going on.
Soon, there were grants, internships, and magazine features. They dubbed him “the Artist of Silence.” His work – quiet cries of the soul — moved everyone who saw it.
Three years have gone. Mikhail couldn’t hold back tears as he watched his son leave for his solo show in St. Petersburg. I tried to be strong, but my heart ached. Our boy has grown up. It’s out there without us. But he returned.
One lovely day, he arrived at our door with a bouquet of wildflowers. He hugged us and guided us across the hamlet, past curious stares, to a remote field.
There was a house. New, white, with a balcony and large windows. The village had long been gossiping about who was building it, but no one knew who owned it.
“What is this?” I whispered, unable to believe what I saw.
Ilya smiled and pulled out keys. Inside were spacious rooms, a studio, bookshelves, new furniture.
“Son,” Mikhail said, stunned, looking around, “is this… your house?”
Ilya shook his head and signed: “Ours. Yours and mine.”
Then he led us to the yard where a huge painting adorned the wall: a basket at the gate, a woman with a radiant face holding a child, and above them, in sign language, the words: “Thank you, Mom.”
I froze, unable to move. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I didn’t wipe them away.
Always reserved Mikhail instantly rushed forward and held his kid so fiercely that Ilya could barely breathe.
Ilya hugged him back and reached for my hand. And we stood there, three of us, in the center of the field next to our new home.
Ilya’s paintings are now displayed in some of the world’s most prestigious exhibitions. He established a school for deaf children in the regional center and raised finances for programming.
The village is proud of him—our Ilya, who listens with his heart.
And we dwell in the extremely white house. Every morning, I step onto the porch with a cup of tea and admire the painting on the wall.
Sometimes I think, what if we hadn’t gone out that July morning? What if I didn’t see him? What if I’d been afraid?
Now, Ilya resides in a large city apartment, but he returns home every weekend. He hugs me, and all doubts disappear.
He’ll never hear my voice. But he understands every word I say.
He can’t hear music, so he makes his own using colors and lines.
And when I see his happy smile, I realize:
Sometimes the most meaningful moments in life occur in perfect silence.
